


Bad Jokes and Other Terms of Endearment

by juurensha



Series: Rogue Squad Stories [1]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Clone Wars, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Force Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Beach, Rebellion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 19:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9781232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juurensha/pseuds/juurensha
Summary: Chirrut has a million and one stories he likes to tell about how they met, but he always starts them the same way.“It was love at first sight,” he would say with a (what Baze always felt was an utterly unnecessary) sigh, and sometimes he would even put a hand to his chest for dramatic flair.Baze always rolls his eyes and almost always elbows Chirrut in the side.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I absolutely loved the Rogue One movie, and it kicked me into fic-writing gear, even if it took awhile to actually come together. So between binge-watching Clone Wars and watching the dumpster fire of American politics unfold, this fic got written. Hope you enjoy!

Chirrut has a million and one stories he likes to tell about how they met, but he always starts them the same way. 

“It was love at first sight,” he would say with a (what Baze always felt was an utterly unnecessary) sigh, and sometimes he would even put a hand to his chest for dramatic flair. 

Baze always rolls his eyes and almost always elbows Chirrut in the side.

“He’s embarrassed, but it’s true!” Chirrut usually continues, “The first time we met—”

“We were both scrubby kids, and you managed to give me a headache in a minute,” Baze interrupts with a roll of his eyes. 

“Because you were _in love_ with me,” Chirrut insists, grinning widely. 

Maybe the truth is that Baze has always been in love with Chirrut (Chirrut has always said that the reverse is definitely true), but the first time Baze met Chirrut, he had been nine years old, full of nervous excitement to be finally joining the legendary Guardians of the Whilis, and he had been so busy turning around and looking around the _actual temple_ the Guardians lived and trained in, he had collided straight into an eight-year old Chirrut. 

“Sorry!” he had quickly apologized, offering out a hand to the other boy, before noticing the bandages covering the other boy’s eyes. 

“No worries, now come on!” the boy had piped up, grabbing Baze’s hand firmly and dragging him away toward the caves, footsteps unerringly sure despite the bandages on his eyes. 

“What—where are we going?” Baze demanded as he heard shouts from behind him.

“Shh!” the boy hissed, before pulling him into one corner of the caves as a bunch of muttering and glowering guardians rushed by. 

The boy giggled before turning to Baze, “Thanks for staying quiet! I’m Chirrut Imwe!”

“Baze Malbus,” Baze said automatically before frowning, “Why were you running away from the Guardians?”

Chirrut reached into his pocket and carefully took out two slightly squished golden egg-tarts, “They just came out of the oven a little while ago,” he said, offering one to Baze while taking a bite of the other. 

Baze’s mouth watered, the sweet vanilla scent of the eggy pastry wafting around them (they were a very rare treat around his hometown, and he had never had a _whole_ one before), but he managed to heroically hold out, “You _stole_ them?”

Chirrut shrugged, “They’re for dinner later, but they taste better now, so I just took some early. Do you not want it?” he asked, suddenly sounding uncertain.

Baze immediately took the egg-tart from Chirrut’s hand (he had not liked the way the other boy’s voice had suddenly wobbled) and took a bite, “Thanks,” he said, and Chirrut smiled widely at him.

(If he wasn’t a goner before, he must have been a goner then)

“Chirrut!” one of the Guardians yelled, peering inside the cave and glaring at Chirrut before noticing Baze, “Who—”

“This is Baze!” Chirrut replied, linking their arms together, and then that’s that. From then on, they are inextricably tied together, Baze and Chirrut, with Baze always following Chirrut into messy adventure after messy adventure. 

It is ironic that the first time they met, Chirrut had been running from trouble, because afterwards, it seemed like Chirrut was always running headlong into fights, with Baze in tow behind him. 

Chirrut had only been in the temple a few weeks before Baze had arrived, but he knows all of the nooks to hide in, the places to climb for the best view, and which Guardians are nice and which are mean. And it is a good thing that Chirrut has always had the face of a trustworthy person, because they end up trying even the patience of the nicest older Guardians, with their stealing snacks from the kitchens, sneaking out of the temple to explore the city, climbing onto the roofs, and Chirrut picking fights with the older apprentices.

Still, even the harshest of the Guardians have nothing bad to say about Chirrut’s performance on the training grounds. Baze loves watching Chirrut fight, because it’s like watching a master dancer, his staff wielded with grace and certainty, his movements light and quick, and his opponents usually falling around him like leaves. 

(Baze doesn’t have Chirrut’s innate grace, but he likes to think he makes up for it in sheer effort. And he is a better shot, but as Chirrut will point out, he’s competing against a blind man)

Despite the other boy’s steadily failing eyesight and eventual blindness, Chirrut has both a serenity and light in the Force that is so strong that Baze wonders how Chirrut was never taken instead to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. 

He asks Chirrut that one day, and Chirrut just smiles a small secretive smile and says, “The Force has a path for all of us, and my path is with you.”

(He can’t deny that he is happy about that, even if he thinks the Jedi Order really lost out)

Most nights not spent meditating or studying or training (or dragging Chirrut away from yet another brawl that the younger boy started) are spent chattering the night away with Chirrut, the other boy having sneaked into his bunk and curled up at his side. Chirrut is from one of the oases on Jedha, while Baze grew up in one of the walled desert cities, and they both find each other’s early lives fascinating. They attempt to teach each other a little of each other’s home dialects, but usually switch back to Basic to keep telling stories to each other because that’s more fun. 

They grow up together, inseparable, and nothing really changes when they become teenagers, except they hit growth spurts which seems to mean that Chirrut can pick fights with even bigger opponents (not that it really stopped him before), and that Baze begins to find it harder and harder to drag his eyes away from Chirrut’s pale throat, worn but elegant hands, or most distressingly, considering that it doesn’t seem to matter what Chirrut is even _saying,_ Chirrut’s mouth. He takes a lot more trips to the cold waterfall, especially after sparring sessions, but even that doesn’t help much since Chirrut has never outgrown the habit of sneaking into his bunk, and so he ends up waking up earlier and earlier to try to avoid Chirrut waking up and noticing a very awkward situation. 

Still, of course Chirrut notices, placing a hand on his face and asking why he feels so warm. He makes rapid excuses about staying out in the sun too long, of training earlier, of just having a hot bath (oh, how he wished; he hasn’t had a hot bath in _months_ ), frantically batting Chirrut’s hands away. Still, Chirrut has never in his life learned to stop poking at things, so it gets to the point that he has been attempting to avoid Chirrut. 

It kind of works, although some of the other Guardians ask him with worry if anything is wrong, and he swallows his loneliness and longing and keeps dodging Chirrut because he’s not messing up what they have. They are friends, and any messy feelings he has that obviously Chirrut doesn’t share, well given enough time and cold water (icy cold), he thinks he will eventually be able to sort them out. 

Except Chirrut throws a wrench in that plan by confronting him one early morning, grabbing his wrist in the cold dawn light as he tried to sneak off to the waterfalls. 

“You’ve been avoiding me; why?” Chirrut demanded, mouth drawn tight and actually frowning. 

And Baze has just spent an entire sleepless night at Chirrut’s side, trying to not touch but at the same time feeling the other boy’s warmth like a brand at his side, and also it is _really_ early, so the words just tumble out of his mouth.

“I’m in love with you,” he bursts out, before his eyes widen with horror at the secret that just escaped from him.

“Yes, and?” Chirrut asks, puzzled but lacking the amount of surprise Baze thought would be appropriate to this revelation.

Unless it wasn’t a revelation at all to Chirrut. 

Unless Chirrut has always known, and simply doesn’t _care._

(That would be worse than anything Baze has imagined thus far)

“You _knew_?” Baze hisses, shooting a look at the barracks (it looks like everyone else is still sleeping, thank the Force there’s no one else to witness his humiliation), “And that doesn’t—bother you?”

“Why should it? I’m in love with you as well,” Chirrut says as easily as saying that Jedha was a moon or that Coruscant was the capital of the Republic. 

Baze gapes at him. Chirrut simply stares at him. 

“ _What?”_ Baze finally manages to gather enough wits to ask, “Since _when_?”

“Since we met,” Chirrut says simply before a grin sneaks onto his face, “Did you think I gave egg-tarts to everyone I met?”

“Then—then—” Baze stammers, before taking a deep breath ( _I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me)_ , and putting an unsteady hand on Chirrut’s cheek, “Can I kiss you?”

Chirrut’s smile grows wider as he leans into Baze’s touch, nuzzling into his hand, “Why don’t you find out?” he asks, suddenly coy. 

So Baze leans in and presses his mouth to his beloved friend’s, and even though it is somewhat clumsy, and their noses keep knocking together, it is everything he dreamed of and more. 

“We should practice more,” Chirrut says happily, briefly drawing away from Baze’s mouth.

“I agree,” Baze growls before capturing his mouth again. 

There soon isn’t a more private corner of the temple they haven’t defiled in some way, but thankfully soon both of them become senior enough to move from the barracks to more private rooms, although Chirrut is so often in his room that they end up giving away Chirrut’s room.

Life goes well; both of them advance through the duans rapidly, and by the time Baze is twenty-three, he is helping Chirrut make his lightbow. (Chirrut disregards most of his suggestions for extra fire-power sadly though.) He gives prayers and offerings to the Force, and presents Chirrut with a sliver of kyber on his birthday, and Chirrut flashes him a smile that he will never tire of, and hands him a Morellian Weapons Congolemerate blaster. 

“It’s _your_ birthday,” he protests, taking the blaster and admiring it. 

“And it’s also the day I met you, so you could say it’s our anniversary,” Chirrut says, placing some egg-tarts on the table. 

(They never agree on when their anniversary is, but that just means more days to celebrate)

He gives thanks to the Force for bringing him here and that Chirrut was never chosen to be a Jedi (“And I you,” Chirrut says sleepily, passing a hand over his shaved head while rolling over and tucking his head into the crook of Baze’s neck), and that feeling only increases when the Battle of Genosis erupts and the Clone Wars start. 

Jedha is far from the actual battles, but both clones and Jedi wander through the moon to restock and refuel, and even here they get the holos about the battles. They hear about the Battle of Christophsis, the Battle of Ryloth, the superweapons created, and the Jedi and clones who fell. The Force seems darker, with whispers of Jedi falling and Sith rising.

Still, it is not all bad. The clones stationed on Jedha are much less uniform than he would have thought, with Commander Fell being a genius with spices, Corporal Zap being a knife nut, and Sink being an adrenaline junkie with a jet pack. He learns a lot about blasters, bombs, and other heavy artillery from them, and Chirrut gains new people to spar with and tell terrible jokes to (all of the other Guardians have heard Chirrut’s jokes a million times, but the clones seem to find them entertaining). Their Chiss Jedi Knight commander, General Ilium is a welcome presence as well, admiring the temple and kyber crystals and patiently answering all of Chirrut’s unending stream of questions. He thinks that it must come from having had padawans, although General Ilium’s current padawan, a quiet Pantoran girl named Orra, asks nowhere near the amount of questions Chirrut does. 

Four years of skirmishes, and the end seems in sight, with the legendary Kenobi and Skywalker having rescued Chancellor Palpatine from the clutches of General Grievous and rapidly closing in on the abomination of a general himself. 

And then one clear day, Commander Fell gets a holocommunication, says quietly, “Good soldiers follow orders,” and shoots General Ilium in the back of the head.

He doesn’t remember much of that day, and the parts he does, he wishes he could forget. 

They try to get Orra onto a ship and as far from the clones gone mad as possible, and they do, but Sink has always had a way with jury-rigged bombs. 

That’s the first day he’s ever killed anyone. 

(He vomited afterwards, but he still took Sink’s weapons from his corpse to use later on)

It’s been the worst day of his life already, and then Chirrut clutches his shoulder and frantically asks him to access the holocommunications. He feels—there’s something wrong, Chirrut can feel it. 

He does, and then it turns out that it wasn’t just a random fit of madness that had overtaken the clones. 

That this had all been planned, that the Republic has been replaced by an Empire, and the Jedi Order was no more. 

(A lot of people died that day, and he counts his old self among them)

The other Guardians all react in different ways. Some gather and bury the dead, some sit and weep, some just leave. 

Old Master Wen jumps off the highest point of the tower. 

(He would say he could see the appeal except there is both Chirrut and vengeance left to him)

He—

He spends most of the first few days just blankly staring at the holos, only speaking when something happens that Chirrut can’t hear. It feels—unreal. The Jedi were legends made flesh, and the Republic while far away and oftentimes dysfunctional had been a constant, steady presence—

But now all of them are gone to the sound of _applause_. 

It’s the last part, the part where he watches Chancellor Palpatine declare all the Jedi traitors and himself Emperor to the applause of the entire Galactic Senate that finally kicks him from his haze of a stupor. The Republic had always been somewhat corrupt, and Jedha had never been formally part of the Republic, but this is a new world order that is bound to spread like a pestilent plague. The Guardians aren’t a target yet (even the clones had avoided engaging them unless they had stood in the way of their mission of eliminating the Jedi), but they will be.

Today might have been the first day he has ever ended a life, but he will see to it that it is not the last.

The Guardians have lightbows and staffs, but Baze thinks they need heavier firepower to defend the Temple, and so he and some others will need to go off-world to get them (Jedha, despite its Guardians, is a city of mystics not heavy artillery. And if he and Chirrut happen to wander away for a while—who can blame them?)

Chirrut however has other ideas. 

“You go; I’ll stay,” he insists, holding his staff firmly, feet planted to the ground. 

“What the _fuck,_ ” Baze says, glaring at Chirrut, “ _Why?”_

“You need something to return to,” Chirrut says simply, looking at him with far too much clarity (Chirrut could always see right through him).

“We would definitely ship the weapons back; why should _we_ stay here?” Baze asks, gesturing around the Temple (still grand, but not as shining as it once was to him), “There is a whole world out there that we have never seen. We might as well before the Empire burns it down to the ground.”

“Do you give up your duty so easily?” Chirrut asks sadly, looking down.

Baze places a hand on top of Chirrut’s, “The Force failed us; _I_ won’t fail us.”

“The Force will provide,” Chirrut says, tilting his head up, mulish look on his face. 

“Didn’t the Force let all of this _happen_?” Baze shoots back, “Why are you not _angry?”_

Chirrut’s hands shake, but his gaze is steady, “I am _enraged,”_ his voice nearly turning into a low snarl on the last word, before he shook his head as though to dislodge thoughts buzzing in his mind, “I am enraged, but—that will do us no good here. I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me, and yes, everything is by the will of the Force, including this. But we are still here. The Temple is still here. Jedha still stands, the Force is all around us, and we _will_ rise again.”

Baze shakes his head, “How?”

Chirrut reaches a lingering hand up to draw across Baze’s face, “Are you not already trying to prepare us for what’s to come? There will be others like you.”

Baze opens his mouth, and Chirrut gently covers his mouth with his hand, “I know you no longer believe; that’s fine. I can believe enough for both of us; just—come back.”

“I will _always_ come back,” Baze says, drawing Chirrut’s hand around and kissing Chirrut’s knuckles, “Believe that.”

Chirrut leans up and gives him a long, lingering kiss, and despite all his arguments or cajoling, a few days later he is on a cargo-ship offworld, staring out at the desert surface of Jedha, the absence at his side like a missing limb. 

He wants to get back to Jedha with the weapons as soon as possible, but it turns out that getting weapons, especially in the rise of Empire, require much more credits than he, or any of the other Guardians has. Perhaps if Chirrut was with him, he could have charmed the weapons out of the black market, but all they have is Baze, and all Baze has without his faith or Chirrut is his blaster, so he becomes a hired gun.

One day he’s asked if he’s interested in some extra credits for eliminating an Imperial agent, and he is not ashamed about how quickly he said yes. It’s not that much of a stretch after that to start taking up more jobs like that, and assassination pays well, so the credits and weapons come rolling in. 

(If the some of the other Guardians have begun avoiding him—

Well, he ditched his robes for more suitable body armor a while ago and stopped shaving his head. And he is not the only one by far. He’s not really part of them anymore, and Chirrut was right, loathe as he is to admit it. He would not return to Jedha if the most stubborn half of himself had not refused to leave.)

It takes four months (sometimes it felt like four years, the empty nights stretching into a gnawing emptiness, with only holoterminal emails to pass the time. Their holocommunicator is not secure enough yet for him to call the Temple on it sadly), but he manages to get enough to buy all the weapons and pay for their transport back along with passage for himself (the other Guardians have already gone back or wandered off).

He goes back even if he is no longer the same, even if he is stained, even if his nights have become plagued by nightmares. 

(If Chirrut reacts the way some of the Guardians did—

He doesn’t think he will, because even if their world has been turned upside-down, he knows Chirrut down to his marrow. And the tone of Chirrut’s emails have never changed, filled with both longing, bad jokes, and serene good humor.

If he hadn’t rejected him when it was obvious all his faith was gone, he doesn’t think Chirrut ever will.)

He returns during the dry, cold, winter season. It looks nearly the same, with the market still loud and raucous, spices still in the air, and the temple still standing. Besides the odd sensation of Jedha’s desert air blowing through his hair and the weight of the heavier blaster strapped to his hip, he could almost say that no time had passed at all. 

And as he passes through the marketplace, he doesn’t get very far before he sees Chirrut in a fight with a group of thugs. 

For a second, he stands there drinking in the sight of Chirrut’s grace in action before one of the thugs takes a knife out, and then he unholsters his blaster and shoots the thug in the shoulder.

(His first instinct is a headshot, but he does not think that would be a serendipitous first reunion.) 

The rest of them scatter, dragging their screaming comrade away, and Chirrut tilts his head quizzically before turning toward him.

Chirrut has always managed to have the last word, so Baze savors the first and probably the last time he will ever manage to surprise Chirrut to speechlessness.

“You’re back,” Chirrut finally says, mouth stretching into a smile that was in danger of splitting his head as he stepped forward and placed a hand on his cheek.

Baze melted into Chirrut’s touch and ran a hand down his outstretched arm, “I’m sorry it took so long.”

Chirrut shook his head and reached up to run his fingers through Baze’s hair, “You came back; I missed you.”

“I missed you,” Baze replies, pulling Chirrut in for a long overdue kiss.

When they finally come up for air, and they are walking hand-in-hand toward the temple, Chirrut keeps reaching out to play with Baze’s longer hair.

“It looks good on you,” he says serenely. 

Baze rolled his eyes and batted his hands away, “How would you know?”

Chirrut smiled, “The same way I know you’ll look even better when it’s longer.”

Baze lightly knocked shoulders with Chirrut, “Not even five minutes into my homecoming, and I see you picking a fight.”

“I was telling the children stories of the Jedi, and those miscreants took offense,” Chirrut said lightly, although he tightened his grip on Baze’s hand. 

“Oh? What was it this time? The rivalry of the Barsen’thor and Darth Imperius?”

“I was telling them the story of how we met,” Chirrut said with a grin. 

Baze sighed and shook his head, “And how did we meet this time?”

“You were about to become a Jedi padawan when you saw me, fell in love at first sight, and forsook your vows,” Chirrut said, grin widening as he swung their hands. 

“Shouldn’t you have been the Jedi padawan in this story?” 

“You’re the more tall, dark, and handsome one; it seemed fitting,” Chirrut replied, kissing the back of his hand.

He drags Chirrut in for another kiss before asking, “Have you—been telling a lot of stories about the Jedi?”

“Some,” Chirrut said, voice softer, “The children like them; and they should know about the Force and have people to look up to.”

“You know that telling these stories—it’ll bring trouble?” 

“When has trouble ever bothered you?” Chirrut asks, tilting his head at him. 

“You’re getting the two of us mixed up again,” Baze grumbles, but tightens his grasp on Chirrut’s hand, “Try to be careful.”

“When you’re here, I don’t need to,” Chirrut says simply.

“I have your back,” Baze affirms.

“Just make sure you don’t shoot me,” Chirrut says lightly before bringing them to Baze’s favorite kebab shop and ordering for them.

(Later, when they are tangled up in bed, with Chirrut’s reassuring weight on his chest, Baze cups the back of Chirrut’s head and whispers if anything has changed now that he is no longer a Guardian and has blood on his hands. 

Chirrut simply touches his face and says, “No. Why would it? My path has always been with yours.”

“Even if I will do it again?” he asks, staring up at the ceiling.

“Vengeance is sweet,” Chirrut replies, wryly, “Strike hard and fast.”

“Do we become like them then?” 

Chirrut strokes his cheek, “Would you ever kill an innocent to achieve your goals?”

“No,” Baze says, looking at Chirrut. 

“Then you will not become like them,” Chirrut says firmly.

“You were always the best of the Guardians,” Baze comments, affectionately kissing the top of his head. 

“No, that was you,” Chirrut says sadly. )

He is no longer a Guardian, but he still stays in his and Chirrut’s quarters and helps the younger Guardians train. Credits are hard to come by on Jedha, so he does go off-world more than he would like to do jobs. 

He even manages to convince Chirrut to come with him a few times, sharing steaming food they find in food stalls, Chirrut listening him describe the sights, and fighting back to back, Chirrut always reckless, telling both increasingly ridiculous stories of how they met (“He saved me from a an abduction by the Hutts,”) and forbidden stories about the Jedi

He could almost imagine that things hadn’t changed if the Empire’s symbols didn’t begin showing up everywhere along with Stormtroopers, all as identical in that gleaming white armor as the clone troopers that they had replaced had been different. 

(And one thing he will never get used to, no matter how many years go by, is how some people just manage to accept it and blithely move on, as if it doesn’t affect them, as if their neighbors aren’t disappearing around them, as if they’ve forgotten what the galaxy once was.)

Still, the one good thing that comes out of the flood of Stormtroopers into the galaxy is that the black market in weapons swells, and one day he comes across a MWC-35c “Staccato Lightning” repeating cannon. It costs nearly all the credits from his past three jobs and some of the money Chirrut has won gambling, but now he can mow down Stormtroopers like wheat in a field.

“Are you _fondling_ it? Are you trying to make me jealous?” Chirrut asks, raising his eyebrows while Baze cleaned the canon.

“A weapon like this has to be treated right, unlike certain people who have picking fights since they were _four,_ ” Baze retorts.

“If you name it, I am never speaking to you again,” Chirrut informs him, 

Baze snorts, “I’m almost tempted to, just to see how long you would last.”

“Probably a day,” Chirrut says cheerfully.

Baze shakes his head, “I’d give you an hour.” 

Chirrut deftly kicks out his foot and jostles Baze’s hand away from the canon, “Now that you have enough firepower to take over a small moon, can we go home now?”

“Who have you pissed off now? Or run out of people to pick fights with, haven’t you?” Baze asked dryly, placing the canon down. 

Chirrut sighs dramatically, “It is true that we may have weeded away the more formidable opponents on this planet.”

“Or you just miss egg-tarts,” Baze grumbles.

“Or that,” Chirrut replies, flashing a grin.

So it goes, with them fighting back to back with the galaxy dimming around them, making a few allies who have dubious backgrounds (he wouldn’t trust Hondo Ohnaka with anything that isn’t nailed down, and somehow the man talks nearly as much as Chirrut, but he does seem to know nearly everyone in the underworld, for better or worse), trying egg-tarts on different planets (the Torgruta and Twi’lek varieties are interesting; the Zabrak varieties are less so), and coming home to Jedha. Even Jedha is not a haven though, with Stormtroopers and imperial agents steadily arriving, and some of the citizens aiding them as well. Some even try to take over the Temple, but the Guardians have not grown so weak that they cannot repel the first few foolhardy groups that try. 

(They bury the fallen from both sides, and Chirrut meditates while Baze leans against him, back to back. He doesn’t chant the words, but he easily follows them in his thoughts. 

Some habits die hard.

Despite his loss of faith, some of the Guardians were still his friends, and even the ones that weren’t, he had known for the better part of his life. 

You’d think he’d be used to death by now.

He never is.)

As the Empire spreads, so does the nascent Resistance, but they choose to be free agents of their own will, finding their own jobs and staying out of Saw Gerrera’s way. 

(“Our path doesn’t lie with them yet,” Chirrut says, and Baze knows it inevitably will.)

Chirrut tells stories about the Jedi, cheats at dice games, fights ever increasing numbers on his own, and they get into screaming matches over his recklessness. 

“You’re not getting any younger you know,” he snaps, applying bacta to Chirrut’s wrenched shoulder.

“Neither are you,” Chirrut fires back, wincing a bit as he rolls his shoulder.

“One day your luck is going to run out,” he mutters darkly, placing the bacta back into their medical kit.

“Not as long as I have you,” Chirrut says serenely. 

(He stopped praying to the Force a long time ago, but with every fiber of his being, he hopes that is the case)

He has begun to find white hairs (Chirrut, annoyingly, retains the pitch black hair and grace of his youth, even if his joints sometimes creak in the morning) when the Empire comes and turns the Guardians out of the Temple in search of kyber crystals.

Chirrut and him had been away on another job and had returned to see their brethren scattered (and some buried and gone) and their Temple desecrated.

He has seen Chirrut weep before (the day the Jedi were wiped out and a few other bad times on different planets), but not like this. Chirrut curls in on himself, shaking and crying, and all Baze can do is wrap his arms around him and hold on, taking shuddering breaths and holding back his own tears.

(He turned his back on the order, but he never wanted them gone—

If he started weeping, he doesn’t know if he would be able to stop, and then who would Chirrut lean on?)

One day goes by, then two, and on the third, Chirrut doesn’t say a word but starts a giant bar brawl in a place that the Stormtroopers tend to frequent. Chirrut has already managed to take down five Stormtroopers by the time Baze manages to wade in and grab him. He drags him out, one hand keeping a struggling Chirrut slung over his back, and another on his gun, and they somehow make it out alive in the chaos. 

Chirrut starts talking again after that (Baze never tells him how relieved he is, but Chirrut probably hears it or senses it or something, and talks into the night, until Baze grumbles that his chattering could wake up the dead), and they manage to fall into a routine of jobs and wandering the streets and trying to help who they can, but it’s not enough.

It’s not nearly enough.

Chirrut says it’s the will of the Force, and Baze asks (a lifetime ago he would have screamed, but it has been far too long for that) why the Force must have a will and why it has to sweep them all in its wake. 

It’s blasphemy, he knows, but he has been asking that question for years, and Chirrut points out that if either of them knew that, they probably wouldn’t be telling fortunes but making them, and also Chirrut would probably not be blind. 

(It’s a terrible joke, but at least it means Chirrut is somewhat back to his usual unflappable self.)

It has been nineteen years, the Empire is everywhere, and there are no Jedi left, just fools like Chirrut, and he still has (will always have) faith in Chirrut, but he wonders sometimes in the dead of the night, Chirrut’s familiar warmth and weight at his side, staring up at the dank ceiling, how long they can last against all this.

Then Chirrut hears a kyber crystal on the neck of a girl, and they are swept up into the Rebellion, and just as suddenly, Jedha is _gone._

(Everything and _everyone_ they have ever known)

It feels—unreal, and they have no time to really process it, flying off to a rainy planet with far too many rocks on a ship piloted by a jittery ex-Imperial cargo pilot and a droid that definitely has a few screws loose. 

(His hands are shaking as Chirrut clasps them with his own cold and trembling hands and holds on tight.

“What do you see?” he asks.

Baze takes a shuddering breath and says, “I—see us, still here. We’re—all that remains of Jedha.”

Chirrut shook his head, “Not all,” he says jerking his head at the pilot that Baze had nearly strangled, “What does he look like?”

Baze looks at Bodhi Rook, arguing with the droid, and says, “He looks like—a man who has chosen his path despite his fear.”

Chirrut nods, “Then Jedha lives on.”

“Three people does not a _city_ make,” Baze snaps. 

“It is what remains,” Chirrut says sadly.

“They destroyed our home; I will kill them,” Baze says, fixing his sight on the far side of the cargo bay.

Chirrut tightens his hand around Baze’s, “Yes,” he replies simply.)

Cassian Andor is like looking at an odd reflection. Here is a man who has also done bad things in the pursuit of justice, and who will probably do more. So when Chirrut asks if he has the face of a killer (who here does not?), he simply replies that the man has the face of a friend. 

Jyn Erso rushes out, followed quickly of course by Chirrut. He wonders if Chirrut also looks at Jyn Erso, cold-eyed and deadly yet still speaking with a clear Coruscanti accent and dreaming of what she has lost, and wonders if Orra would have grown up to be like her. 

(He would have liked to see her, no matter what she would have grown up to be like)

He of course follows Chirrut out into the rain, and they do not manage to save Jyn’s father, but at least everyone on the ship manages to get out of Eadu alive. 

The Rebellion is more familiar than he would have expected, with the frantic mess and resolve that had marked many of the groups they had worked with over the years, and a slight increase in the amount of politicking. 

He even gets a familiar taste of the irritation at politicians arguing away while lives are at stake (a lifetime ago, when there was still a Republic that may have been corrupt, but had still listened to dissent) and making the wrong choices as per usual.

(He’s wondered before if the Separatists had a point given the way the Republic turned out in the end.)

But no matter what those people would decide, they were always going to fight. 

(They had taken their _home._

He never wanted anyone else to experience that feeling again.)

They both know that this could very well be the mission that neither of them walk away from, that this could be their last night, and they make the most of it, and afterwards they suit up, Baze carefully adjusting Chirrut’s robes, and Chirrut helping him into his armor. 

(He doesn’t want to think it’ll be for the last time) 

Scarif would be a pleasant planet, with white sand and turquoise waters, if it wasn’t for the fact that it was an Imperial garrison, and they were attempting to infiltrate it. As it is, they’re dodging gunfire, running frantically across the sands, stealing weaponry (he has to say that he has never managed to get his hands on a bazooka before), and in general making ten men feel like a hundred like Cassian had implored them to do. 

“A typical vacation,” Chirrut scoffs, bashing a Stormtrooper with his staff.

Baze grunts as he cocks his shotgun, “Better weather,” he supplies.

“You need to take me to better places,” Chirrut laughs, before kicking another Stormtrooper in the head. 

But they are outgunned, outmanned, and they have to communicate with the Rebel fleet, but they are blocked without the master switch. He sees the look in Chirrut’s eyes and tries to catch his sleeve, but Chirrut walks with all the suriety and grace he posseses out into the field, and Baze watches in awe as he passes through a hail of blaster-shots unscathed (how?) and flips the switch, but then—

Then Chirrut falls. 

He is screaming, and he doesn’t know how he makes it to Chirrut’s side, just that he is there, propping Chirrut up and grasping at his hand desperately as Chirrut takes shallow, laboring breaths. 

“Chirrut—don’t go, don’t go,” he chants frantically, rocking back and forth, “I’m here, I’m _here.”_

Chirrut somehow still manages to smile and reaches up to cup his face, “It’s okay—it’s okay. Look for the Force—and you’ll always find me.”

And then he’s gone.

(He has spent the majority of his life at Chirrut’s side, and now—

And now—)

He rises, gritting his teeth, and chanting the Guardians’ mantra, words falling like rusty coins from his mouth (“I am one with the Force, and the Force is with me,”), shooting at all the Deathtroopers that dare to be standing when Chirrut is no more. 

He feels the shot and sees the grenade, but he makes sure the last thing he sees is Chirrut’s beloved face, before—

His eyes open again, and he is still on a beach, but the Deathtroopers are gone, and Chirrut is standing before him. 

“You couldn’t wait five minutes before following me?” Chirrut asks with a raised eyebrow, belied by the way he launches himself into Baze’s arms. 

“I go where you go,” Baze says into Chirrut’s short hair, burying his face into the crook of Chirrut’s neck.

Chirrut sighs and drags a hand through Baze’s hair, “I suppose I can keep you around.”

Baze snorts, “You’re the one who fell in love with me at first sight, remember?”

“That is true,” Chirrut muses, intertwining their fingers, “But you have often said I am insane.”

“You are,” Baze points out, kissing him lightly, “And so am I.”

Chirrut smiles and points to the horizon, “Want to find everyone else and tell them how this Force ghost stuff works?”

“Let’s,” Baze says, and they walk off hand in hand. 

**Author's Note:**

> Did you catch the Old Republic reference? I do love my Sith Inquisitor and Jedi Consular. And I couldn't resist letting Hondo make a cameo. This will probably be jossed very soon by the upcoming Guardian of the Whillis novel, but I hope you liked it!


End file.
